


Bippity Boppity Boo

by twinkfloyd



Category: Elton John (Musician), T. Rex (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21960772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinkfloyd/pseuds/twinkfloyd
Summary: Marc treats Elton to some well-deserved luxury.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Bippity Boppity Boo

**Author's Note:**

> For Soobie. 's A Very Kinky Rockfic Ficmas Fest. The prompt was 'Marc Bolan,Elton John (T Rex): Early years please, something camp but very masculine.'

Harrod’s was bustling with the usual end of year holiday traffic, women in heavy coats and hats weighed down with bags. Sullen looking husbands trailing behind or holed up in a smoking lounge rather than be subjected to what was no less than an entire day’s worth of comparing price tags and talking with the countergirls until both of them were in need of a cigarette. Many mobbed in to get out of the cold, furnaces and the smell of candied nuts inviting them inside, looky-loos who couldn’t afford to really be in here in the first place. Aspirational window shoppers, fantasizing in their reflections about what Wasn’t and Never Would Be. Marc paraded Elton past all these people and right up the escalator with the forthrightness of a man who knew just what he wanted. 

“Well now I assure you your wardrobe is more than _fine and dandy_ Reggie but truly the hallmark of success is a bespoke suit, something made to order, one of a kind, much like yourself. Consider it my treat,” he waved, conducting them towards a clever little shop whose front brimmed with blazers and jackets. Businessman’s blacks and greys, a muted blue, brown- white, if someone’s a real character, gave way to jewel tones sparkling throughout like cut gems peeking through the spoil. Even hung here like specimens under glass, they turned heads, captivating, and no doubt, very expensive.

“You’re too kind-” Elton began, feeling himself being pushed through the entry.  
“Oh no I insist, no friend of mine should be caught walking around in these second hand clothes looking like a pauper. You are a rock star now, celebrity! You must look and act the part dear, unless you’d rather go back to writing jingles rather than tangle with the burden of fame. You don’t really want that now do you?”

“Heavens, fuck no, I’m just saying well these are a bit much. I don’t exactly have rockstar money yet, I’m not about to take out a loan to purchase a pair of polyester slacks.”

“Don’t talk about money, it’s my gift! You can pay me back eventually if you really must, you always need new clothes once you develop the taste for it. What can I say, my public demands it?” Marc commanded the front counter, all eyes on a big spender, observing the ever shifting fashions, following to stay current wherever it led next. 

“It’s Christmas, enjoy yourself.” 

“Well, it is Christmas… I thought you were Jewish?” 

“Who is? What does that have to do with anything- Sir, sir,” he tapped the bell, “We’d like to see your fabrics, my companion here needs something to match his inner glamour and personal charm. Something to dazzle, to astonish. We’re here to take London by storm and nothing less.”

“I like sequins,” Elton offered. “Rhinestones… Swarovski if there’s a special on them.” 

“There’s not-” “-I figured as much.”

The seamster gave them a long look and stepped into the back room, “I will see what I can do, gentlemen.”

In the musical number that proceeded in the stage adaptation, the pair were swept through a barrage of colors and textures, fancifully exploring what was undoubtedly a metaphor for something else (weren’t they all?). The measuring tape lassoed about like ticker tape or the bunting that decked the halls of the shopping centre, cheekily wreathing his body then probing his intimates with a discrete surgeon’s touch. Marc only encouraged this indulgent fantasy, flitting about like Tinkerbell or The Blue Fairy, determined to underneath the glitter and pixie dust, make Elton into a real boy yet. 

By the time they’d finished however, head still spinning, the magic seamed to wear off and the smile ran away from his face discovering what he’d done to himself in their folly. The mirror on the wall told no lies, he was indeed the jackass standing before him.  
“I feel like a clown,” Elton held his arms out to the side and let them fall back with a billowing thump. 

“That’s good! Everyone loves a clown,” Marc fawned, a number of coats still draped over his arm, waltzing through the racks. 

“I feel like I’m wearing the whole damn circus tent.”

Marc clucked disapprovingly, “Well it’s not fitted yet, give it a chance before you start insulting yourself. The jacket doesn’t deserve this and neither do you.”

By this point, Elton had had his fun and was ready to leave suit or no suit, wondering if he really wanted to embarrass himself with this frippery. He’d gone from respectable to spectacle to despicable in a matter of moments, carried away by all the bloody options. He looked like a drag queen with an arts and crafts fetish who’d gotten it on with a carny in the quilting aisle at Michael’s. 

The tailor approached him again, a bit concerned as well. “Something not to your liking sir?”

“You could say that… I look ridiculous,” he cast off the falderal in distaste, moving towards something more refined, restrained and very English.

“Mmm yes perhaps,” the man watched and gathered the clothes behind him, “What’s say let’s give it a try though, if you don’t like it, you don’t have to buy it.”

“If I still hate it I’ll regift it to Marc next year when he’s forgotten all about it.”

“Suit yourself.”

“ _I will_.”

They’d sent the box, all wrapped and garbled, a few weeks later, a heavy weight sinking in Elton’s stomach as he braced himself for what could be succinctly described as ‘hot shit’, and opening the package, found himself… oddly relieved. No, delighted. There was this sensation... of something awakening within him. 

Descending the staircase like Cinderella at the ball, heads turned towards the midday sun entertaining the room itself. A work of art. Oh and Marc was so jealous don’t you know it. He stamped his foot. The student had indeed surpassed the master.


End file.
